While Earth Orbits Mars
by FancyFreeThinker101
Summary: But there's Mars in his mouth and when he tells you he loves you your head hurts and incredulity trickles like sweat down your back, along your cleavage. HPGW ONESHOT. Experimental, inspired by Queen Nightingale's Astronaut Boots but not nearly as good. Read and review.


_AN: Mm. Um...hello. I don't know why this is here. I was in a really weird, acid-trippy mood and this came out. Sorry._

There's Mars in his mouth.

He has hot and dusty eyes like Venus but they're ringed like Saturn and the shadows beneath them are glittering, like asphalt or onyx in the sun or a comet.

But there's Mars in his mouth.

Mars is the red planet, and everything about his oral cavity glows red—the fierce blaze of the sunset and the orangeish ironic red or rust and the banal glossy red of Eden's apple. Mars in his mouth and it tastes like paint and coats your lips and dribbles your front like blood and you can't believe that people say Mars is a dry wasteland. There's Pluto in his glares and seven stars across the galaxy of his nose and his spine is Orion's belt.

But there's Mars in his mouth and when he tells you he loves you your head hurts and incredulity trickles like sweat down your back, along your cleavage. Mars in his mouth and an asteroid wedged in his throat and the rusty taste on your teeth that tastes of Mars and comes from kissing him.

Mercury blazes gold on the rims of his glasses and you combust from such proximity to the sun. His lashes are sweeps of space and asteroid and there's something lunar in the pale tender skin of his wrists. Creamsicle Jupiter rotates on its axis in his cheeks and spills into his temples sometimes and there's a black hole in the divot of his collarbone, sucking and whirling and drawing you in. Sunlight at dangerous concentrations spills from him when he's not looking, more scorching than warm. He burns white and violet and comets seep from his pores and it hurts to look at him.

But there's Mars in his mouth and when he says your name you forget you're one pinpoint in his universe. Blue paint drips down your neck and when he kisses your lashes you close your eyes and watch the swirl of fog and sharp, glittering atoms that dance behind them, cosmic. You now—your hair is fire and your eyes are chocolate and your body is white and pink and grounded. You are of the Earth, and your hips sway and rotate on its axis. You beat your lashes like hammers on the meadows of your cheeks and imagine they drip black. You tell him you love him and your mouth seems gaping and open, like a wound.

But there's Mars in his mouth and he thinks you're beautiful.

Venus again in his hands on your waist and the gaseous swirl of his murmur in your ear. Neptune in the sharp cerulean of the way he smells when he's showered. Uranus, the comic planet, in the crimson billows of his laughter and the uneven shape of his nose. The stitched red scar on his palm is a wormhole through space and glitters as crisp shards of ruby. The Milky Way teeters on the precipice of his kiss swollen lips when he speaks, and it too is soaked in the red of his Mars, slick like paint or chocolate and making a steady drip like a faucet onto the floor, disappearing into your carpet. You stand close in hopes that it drips onto your shoes and stays there, stand close and think of your pink ribbon tongue covetously taking every last drop from his lips.

But there's Mars in his mouth and sometimes you can't stand it.

Mars in his mouth and sometimes you go to bed with the red of his mouth smeared like sin or lipstick all around your lips, wondering how no one can see it, reveling in it.

Only you see it, but you keep it there, this taste and smear of him and lightly trace the dull pink of your lips, wishing they whispered of crystal like his do.

Neck like a swan. He says you have a neck like a swan. You wonder if you should tell him you hate birds.

Swans, birds, earth, not even fliers like other birds. You lust for space travel and with him you swirl intergalactically, breathing asteroids and starlight and the heady gases of Venus-and always, eternally Mars.

There's Mars in his mouth, lining his throat, and it clamps at your jugular when you wonder what it's like for him to kiss you. When Earth bumps against Mars, inhaling it. Your mouth is orange, unsightly and flat, and the stains left at the roof of your mouth from his crimson tongue are tangy and acrid. Constellations in his teeth as they tease your earthly, avian neck. Yours feel like the metal doors of a rocket, clanging against him, banging and shuddering in space.

But there's Mars in his mouth, and he can't live without you.

Mars in his mouth, and you're longing for space travel.


End file.
